Chapter 3 #2
By the time I return to the porch, my arms laden with firewood, she's waiting as promised.
She's added a thick cardigan over her hoodie, and her hands are covered in knit gloves that look inadequate for the bitter cold.
Still, she takes each log from me without complaint, stacking them neatly against the wall.
"It's really coming down," she says, breath clouding in the frigid air. "How long do these storms usually last?"
"This system could keep us snowed in for days." I dump the load of wood, already turning to get more. "The plow won't make it up the mountain road until it passes."
She pauses in her stacking. "Days? But my work—"
"Should have thought of that before agreeing to mountain life." I don't soften the reality for her. "This isn't the city with its plowed roads and reliable services."
Instead of wilting, she straightens her spine. "I'll manage. I always do."
Something about the quiet determination in her voice catches at me. This isn't a woman accustomed to having things easy, despite the polished exterior.
Three more trips to the woodshed, and we've stockpiled enough wood to last through the worst of the storm. By the final load, Judith's cheeks are flushed with cold, her curls dusted with snowflakes that melt into droplets clinging to the dark strands.
"Inside," I say, holding the door open for her. "You're freezing."
"I'm fine." But her teeth chatter slightly as she passes me.
The warmth of the cabin envelops us, along with the mouthwatering scent of baked cinnamon and sugar. The timer on the oven beeps insistently.
"Perfect timing." Judith hurries to rescue her creation, pulling out a tray of golden-brown rolls that make my stomach growl audibly.
She glances over her shoulder, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "Hungry, mountain man?"
"Might be." I remove my snow-dusted coat, hanging it by the door.
She transfers the rolls to a cooling rack with practiced ease. "Give them five minutes. More coffee?"
I nod, watching as she moves around my kitchen like she belongs there.
It's been a long time since anyone cooked in this space besides me.
Not since Sofia left three years ago, claiming the isolation was driving her mad.
She'd lasted six months. I wonder idly how long Judith will maintain her composure before the mountain gets to her too.
"You're staring," she says without turning around.
"Just wondering how a public relations executive learned to bake like a professional."
"Therapy." She hands me a fresh mug of coffee, our fingers brushing. "After my mother died, I had trouble sleeping. The therapist suggested finding something repetitive and productive to do at night. Baking worked."
Again, the glimpse beneath her polished surface intrigues me. "What does your father think of this arrangement?"
Pain flashes across her features before she can mask it. "He died two years ago. Heart attack."
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate.
"Thanks." She busies herself with the rolls, spreading cream cheese frosting with careful precision. "What about your parents? You mentioned your father passed."
"Car accident ten years ago. My mother left when I was twelve. Haven't heard from her since."
Judith pauses, looking up at me with unexpected compassion. "That must have been hard."
"It was a long time ago." I echo her earlier deflection.
She seems to understand, nodding once before sliding a plate with a cinnamon roll toward me. "Truce offering? For disrupting your perfectly ordered mountain hermit existence?"
The gentle teasing in her tone surprises me. I accept the plate, our fingers brushing again. This time, neither of us pulls away immediately.
"Truce accepted." I take a bite, unable to suppress an appreciative groan as flavors explode across my tongue. "Damn, that's good."
Her smile is genuine, pleasure lighting her eyes at my reaction. "Told you I stress bake. The worse the stress, the better the results."
"Then I should probably be terrified of how good these are."
She laughs, the sound warming the space. For a moment, the artifice of our arrangement falls away, leaving just a man and a woman sharing food in a storm-besieged cabin.
The moment shatters when her phone buzzes insistently on the counter. She checks it, her expression immediately closing.
"Everything okay?" I ask, though it's none of my business.
"Just my lawyer." She sets the phone screen-down. "Marc's father's team is relentless is all."
"What happens if they succeed in proving it's not real?"
"I owe them a million dollars I don't have, and my professional reputation gets destroyed." She meets my gaze directly. "This isn't just about money, Dario. Marc has threatened to make sure I never work in the industry again, and they have the resources to do it."
The matter-of-fact way she says it, without self-pity or dramatics, reinforces that protective feeling I've been trying to ignore.
"It just a question. Like I said they won't prove anything." I finish my coffee, setting down the mug with finality.
Relief softens her features. "Thank you."
"I should check the generator like I said I would." I move toward the door, needing distance from the unexpected intimacy of the moment.
She nods, professional mask slipping back into place. "I should get some work done while the internet's still functioning."
I watch her retreat upstairs, forcing myself to ignore the sway of her hips in those worn jeans. This arrangement is already complicated enough without adding unwanted attraction to the mix. And now there's an angry ex-fiancé and his powerful father to contend with.
A temporary wife. A temporary arrangement. I just need to keep reminding myself of that.
But as I hear her moving around upstairs, humming softly to herself while the scent of her baking fills my home, the lines already begin to blur.